Friday, August 09, 2002
Darkness In The Valley
A shade of sunlight drifts across the sky, illuminating the clouds in color and casting strange shadows upon the sidewalk. This is not my planet. This is not my time. This is not where I belong. Her concious is drifting between here and there, the real world and some far away place that she can barely remember. Why is this different? Should it not be the same? The uneasiness and discomfort well up stronger than ever and she tries to settle herself but somehow she can't and now she wonders what is wrong with herself. Music. I'll listen to music. Music to soothe the soul. But the ploy does not work and her thoughts become a furious deluge of broken and twisted logic:
the power lines. why am i afraid of them? why do they plague me so? this fear, this irrational fear, i feel terror. oh, but then the sound, the sound of crackling, over and over again, over and over again, the crackling...the fire. the smoke. the terror. the fright. so it's finally happened. the dream. i was not prepared. that is what i get for not listening to them. to the shadows. for telling mortals of their secrets. why did i think this? why on earth would that ever cross my mind? the dream, the dream of fire. the flames licking at my skin, at my clothing. but i am dead then, and i see it in the middle of the fire. my concious snuffed out by smoke until nothing more is left of it, slowly dying like HAL, drifting and becoming nothing. fitting for evil. demons. they are there, awaiting, for something, a takeover of souls and i'm part of it. and the floor drops from beneath me but i'm still on the wall. i'm still on the wall, stuck to it, as i see all of them, all of those poor people sucked down into nothingness....
Her head snaps back to attention. She is confused. She does not know where she is...she knows that she is here, but she still can't believe it. She grasps her coffee cup and swigs down the last of the cold forgotten coffee. She sips at her water, but as she does this, her eyes close and she sees something. Something wicked. "'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'," says the voice, clear as day, "but for you my dear, I think it would smell sweeter." Her hand looses contact with the plastic glass, sending it straight down to the concrete below. For a moment, there is no space and time for her, she is suspended in a dream world...until water splashes across her feet and her eyes pop open, afraid that anyone has seen her. She picks up the cup, slowly packs her things, puts away all that needs to be put away. Her feet, of their own volition, move into the dimly lit bar to drown the brain in alcohol so that what happens is never remembered again.....
A shade of sunlight drifts across the sky, illuminating the clouds in color and casting strange shadows upon the sidewalk. This is not my planet. This is not my time. This is not where I belong. Her concious is drifting between here and there, the real world and some far away place that she can barely remember. Why is this different? Should it not be the same? The uneasiness and discomfort well up stronger than ever and she tries to settle herself but somehow she can't and now she wonders what is wrong with herself. Music. I'll listen to music. Music to soothe the soul. But the ploy does not work and her thoughts become a furious deluge of broken and twisted logic:
the power lines. why am i afraid of them? why do they plague me so? this fear, this irrational fear, i feel terror. oh, but then the sound, the sound of crackling, over and over again, over and over again, the crackling...the fire. the smoke. the terror. the fright. so it's finally happened. the dream. i was not prepared. that is what i get for not listening to them. to the shadows. for telling mortals of their secrets. why did i think this? why on earth would that ever cross my mind? the dream, the dream of fire. the flames licking at my skin, at my clothing. but i am dead then, and i see it in the middle of the fire. my concious snuffed out by smoke until nothing more is left of it, slowly dying like HAL, drifting and becoming nothing. fitting for evil. demons. they are there, awaiting, for something, a takeover of souls and i'm part of it. and the floor drops from beneath me but i'm still on the wall. i'm still on the wall, stuck to it, as i see all of them, all of those poor people sucked down into nothingness....
Her head snaps back to attention. She is confused. She does not know where she is...she knows that she is here, but she still can't believe it. She grasps her coffee cup and swigs down the last of the cold forgotten coffee. She sips at her water, but as she does this, her eyes close and she sees something. Something wicked. "'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'," says the voice, clear as day, "but for you my dear, I think it would smell sweeter." Her hand looses contact with the plastic glass, sending it straight down to the concrete below. For a moment, there is no space and time for her, she is suspended in a dream world...until water splashes across her feet and her eyes pop open, afraid that anyone has seen her. She picks up the cup, slowly packs her things, puts away all that needs to be put away. Her feet, of their own volition, move into the dimly lit bar to drown the brain in alcohol so that what happens is never remembered again.....
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
Whistful
The lazy hand trails a single fingernail down her back and she sighs in contentment. How she longs for the days and nights and the boy who will make her life feel better. Oh, but it is just a dream, she knows. It will not happen, now or ever, or so she feels because the tears that trickle down her face in the lost and lonely moments of the bar and the beer keep her in reality. But then she sees him and she feels better but she knows that it will not last, not much does and her psyche closes in on itself. The last one, the one before that, the one before that, the one before that...she counts silently in her head. She is resigned to aloneness if only to protect her hopes from ever seeing the light they so wish to have. Her hand trails, lazy fingers, across fine hair and she sighs again. Oh what path has she taken where it leads to this? Her soul long sold to satan and evil, she struggles with the good people here. When it is her turn to leave she hopes that her world will not come to an end. She doesn't think about that so much now, as the scent in her hair reminds her of the delicate hand, creating a surrealistic distraction, as if by memory alone the hand has come back. She is haunted by demons and ghosts but none will ever touch her memory in the way that a brilliant and shy soul could. She delights in this fact for in secret, if a million years from now she remembers, she will relish the scent and the hand. How frightfully poetic, she muses, that I can think of these things and want them so badly. But she remembers John. How nice, how slimy he was. Forget him, her mind implores. She will right now because she basks in contentness, the hand across her back and the hair across her arm a momentary distraction from her usual insanity.
The lazy hand trails a single fingernail down her back and she sighs in contentment. How she longs for the days and nights and the boy who will make her life feel better. Oh, but it is just a dream, she knows. It will not happen, now or ever, or so she feels because the tears that trickle down her face in the lost and lonely moments of the bar and the beer keep her in reality. But then she sees him and she feels better but she knows that it will not last, not much does and her psyche closes in on itself. The last one, the one before that, the one before that, the one before that...she counts silently in her head. She is resigned to aloneness if only to protect her hopes from ever seeing the light they so wish to have. Her hand trails, lazy fingers, across fine hair and she sighs again. Oh what path has she taken where it leads to this? Her soul long sold to satan and evil, she struggles with the good people here. When it is her turn to leave she hopes that her world will not come to an end. She doesn't think about that so much now, as the scent in her hair reminds her of the delicate hand, creating a surrealistic distraction, as if by memory alone the hand has come back. She is haunted by demons and ghosts but none will ever touch her memory in the way that a brilliant and shy soul could. She delights in this fact for in secret, if a million years from now she remembers, she will relish the scent and the hand. How frightfully poetic, she muses, that I can think of these things and want them so badly. But she remembers John. How nice, how slimy he was. Forget him, her mind implores. She will right now because she basks in contentness, the hand across her back and the hair across her arm a momentary distraction from her usual insanity.
Sunday, August 04, 2002
Blacklights
The night is bright she can barely see in it. This is Crazy Girl's alternate realm, the realm of actual sight of ghosts and figures. This world exists in conjuction with the other realm, the realm of concreteness and time. The alternate realm is not of time nor concreteness nor anything which any human dares to know. This is a world of Shadows and their magic, a world of souls and no deliverance. This is the place where she knows she will end up -- where all humans end up. She is not frightened by this realm, only by her ease of acceptance of it. For a fleeting moment she does not realize that she is indeed, still in the concrete realm, that nothing has ever changed except her perceptions which are clouded with chemicals designed by god and man to create confusion and desire. She isn't on Earth; she is at home, back home with her comfortable bed and pretty music to soothe her soul. She is back home to her time, her place, her real life, not this life that she was thrust into. She imagines the time and space she left, a world that is more infinately peaceful, a world that she doesn't feel estranged in, a world that exists outside of the hellhole she was transported to. In her world, people aren't infinately sad and depressed or empty or hurt. There are exceptions but they are rare. Where she is now is so totally different than what she is used to. But then again, she doesn't really remember the world she left. She has no clue that it not much different than this place. She sighs. Will I fit in anywhere? she thinks.....
The night is bright she can barely see in it. This is Crazy Girl's alternate realm, the realm of actual sight of ghosts and figures. This world exists in conjuction with the other realm, the realm of concreteness and time. The alternate realm is not of time nor concreteness nor anything which any human dares to know. This is a world of Shadows and their magic, a world of souls and no deliverance. This is the place where she knows she will end up -- where all humans end up. She is not frightened by this realm, only by her ease of acceptance of it. For a fleeting moment she does not realize that she is indeed, still in the concrete realm, that nothing has ever changed except her perceptions which are clouded with chemicals designed by god and man to create confusion and desire. She isn't on Earth; she is at home, back home with her comfortable bed and pretty music to soothe her soul. She is back home to her time, her place, her real life, not this life that she was thrust into. She imagines the time and space she left, a world that is more infinately peaceful, a world that she doesn't feel estranged in, a world that exists outside of the hellhole she was transported to. In her world, people aren't infinately sad and depressed or empty or hurt. There are exceptions but they are rare. Where she is now is so totally different than what she is used to. But then again, she doesn't really remember the world she left. She has no clue that it not much different than this place. She sighs. Will I fit in anywhere? she thinks.....
